


snow had fallen (snow on snow)

by spilled_notes



Category: Holby City
Genre: (thank goodness I've finally found a use for a terrible train journey i endured), AU, Berena Secret Santa, F/F, Fluff, Snowed In, nonexistent military hospital unit, oh my god there was only one bed...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21905179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes
Summary: Serena came to Edinburgh the week before Christmas to see her daughter. She should be on her way to the airport now, ready to fly back home for the pre-Christmas-weekend rush on AAU. But overnight the gentle, picturesque swirl of snowflakes turned into the frozen equivalent of a torrential, never-ending downpour, so she’s stuck here, resigned to spending at least one more night in a hotel room that should now be occupied by a stranger. A stranger who has, against all odds and expectations, managed to fight her way through the chaos the snowstorm has brought to the rail network…
Relationships: Serena Campbell/Bernie Wolfe
Comments: 16
Kudos: 127
Collections: Berena Secret Santa 2019





	snow had fallen (snow on snow)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wonko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonko/gifts).



> For the prompt: 'Strangers. Snowstorm. One hotel room'. I want to thank you, Wonko, because this has got me back into writing them after the best part of a year. I hope you enjoy it!

‘Yes, Henrik,’ Serena sighs, looking out of the window at the snow swirling from the darkening sky. ‘I know a little thing like a snowstorm wouldn’t cause everything to grind to a halt in Sweden, but this is Scotland. All flights out of Edinburgh and Glasgow have been cancelled, at least for the rest of the day, the trains are in chaos, and if you think I’m going to drive all the way back then– Oh,’ she breaks off, surprised. ‘Well then I’ll let you know if anything changes. Don’t let Ric destroy my ward, will you?’

Serena hangs up and sighs again. It’s already getting dark despite it only having just gone three o’clock, but it’s clear the heavy, snow-filled clouds she woke up to are still there, still spilling fat flakes with no end in sight. She shivers, draws the heavy curtains against the chill emanating from the glass, and dials another number.

‘Jason? Now, I know I should be home this evening but– What do you mean you already know? Yes, yes of course you’ve been looking at the forecast and the departures board online,’ she smiles fondly. ‘And it’s ok with Alan for you to stay longer? Alright, then I’ll let you know when I’ll be home. No, I don’t mind if you watch Mary Beard with Alan instead of waiting for me. I’ll see you soon, love.’

Serena hangs up again and shakes her head, surprised twice in as many phone calls, glad her day isn’t going quite as badly as it could be. Another sigh, then she settles more comfortably under the thoughtfully provided blanket, reaches for her book and a blue and white striped paper bag. Even if she goes out for dinner ridiculously early, a couple of small cookies are hardly going to spoil her appetite, and she’s determined to salvage whatever small joys she can from the ruins of her plans.

*

When Serena closes her book and peeks through the curtains several hours later, it’s still snowing. But her stomach isn’t far from grumbling, so she pulls on a thick cardigan and another pair of socks and gets ready to venture out, adding her furry hat last of all. As she makes her way down the two flights of stairs she starts to regret the hat, and the wool scarf looped around her neck. This morning was almost viciously cold, though, even warmed as she was with frustration at her daughter and the weather. It’s only going to feel worse in the dark and after having been curled up with blankets and central heating, and she knows she’ll probably still feel chilly when she steps outside.

At the bottom of the stairs Serena pulls her gloves from her coat pockets, has her hand on the front door when she hears voices from the little sitting room.

‘I’m so sorry, Ms Wolfe,’ Shelagh, the hotel owner, is saying. ‘No one’s been able to get out of the city because of the snow so your room is still occupied. We really weren’t expecting you to be able to get to us.’

‘I almost didn’t,’ another woman says. ‘I’ve had a hell of a journey: three trains, a coach, and two hours waiting at Birmingham New Street with no idea if I’d get out of there. I wouldn’t have bothered, but I’ve got a job interview tomorrow.’

‘I’ll phone around for you, see if I can’t find you somewhere,’ Shelagh replies. ‘I imagine most places are in the same boat as us, but maybe we’ll get lucky.’

‘I hope so,’ the stranger says wearily. ‘Tomorrow’s important.’

Serena takes a step closer and peeks through the half open door, sees a woman around her own age, tiredness and stress and an edge of pain clearly etched on her face. A woman having a far worse day than Serena is.

‘Excuse me,’ she says, nudging the door open properly. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing your predicament – and feeling like I might be partly to blame.’

‘The weather’s hardly your fault, lass,’ Shelagh says, phone to her ear as she waits for someone to answer.

‘True,’ Serena smiles. ‘But I should have checked out this morning, so I might be in your room. Lucky for you, though, there’s a perfectly good single bed in there too, and I can only sleep in one bed at once.’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t–’ the woman protests.

‘I can’t ask you to do that,’ Shelagh agrees.

‘You’re not asking, I’m offering,’ Serena says firmly. ‘Besides, you look exhausted and I can only imagine the ordeal you’ve had getting here. You hardly need to be waiting around and then traipsing off through the snow, especially if you’ve got an important interview tomorrow. I insist,’ she says, before either can complain again and, with the tone she uses on recalcitrant patients and board members and F1s alike, adds, ‘I won’t take no for an answer.’

‘If you’re really sure you don’t mind sharing with a stranger,’ the woman says.

‘As long as you promise not to murder me in my sleep,’ Serena teases with a wink. ‘Besides, we can get to know each other over dinner, before we sleep together.’

The other woman blushes at this, and Serena can’t help noticing how it highlights her already striking cheekbones.

‘That’s settled, then,’ Serena says briskly, with a smile at Shelagh. ‘I was just heading out to dinner – there’s a nice little Italian just up the road that I’ve been eyeing up every time I walk past, and I’m damned if I’m going to miss the unexpected opportunity to eat there. Would you care to join me?’

*

It takes every ounce of Serena’s charm but eventually, with the help of a very loud stomach rumble, she persuades Bernie, as she discovers her new roommate is called, that a plate full of pasta and a glass or two of warming wine is worth setting foot outside again for.

There’s a festive atmosphere in the restaurant, strings of fairy lights all around for Christmas and candles on every table, and Serena feels a sense of camaraderie with the few other diners: they’ve all trudged through the snow and ice to get here, all have cold fingers and toes, have all had their days disrupted in some way. It’s here, in the glow, that she gets her first proper look at Bernie, when she takes off the long, pale pink coat made even paler by a liberal dusting of fresh snow from their walk. Serena’s glad she’s already sitting down, because the wool had hidden long, slender legs in tight black jeans she’s certain no woman their age should be able to pull off like that. And under the jumper Bernie drags over her head, making a mess of her hair as she goes – because for all that it’s freezing outside it’s plenty warm enough in the restaurant – is a perfectly fitting white shirt.

Serena feels a thrum of attraction low in her belly. Stepney may have been a long time ago, and it may have been a long time since she’s felt this for a woman, but she recognises it instantly. Maybe this delay won’t be so bad, after all.

‘What brings you here this close to Christmas?’ Bernie asks, settling into her chair and picking up the menu.

‘My darling daughter,’ Serena replies, following suit. ‘She’s a student here, and decided she’d rather go off skiing with her new boyfriend and his family than come home for Christmas. And then she went and changed her travel plans without informing me,’ she adds with a hint of annoyance, ‘so in fact I could have left yesterday, well before the snow got so bad I was trapped here.’

‘Frustrating,’ Bernie says, a little tightly, as the waiter comes to take their order.

‘So, you’ve got an interview tomorrow?’ Serena asks when he’s gone. ‘Must be an important one for you to travel in this.’

Bernie nods. ‘At the Royal Infirmary. I’m a trauma surgeon.’

‘A fellow surgeon?’ Serena asks, her face lighting up. ‘What are the chances?’

‘You’re a surgeon too?’

‘Vascular,’ Serena confirms. ‘Although I spend most of my time doing general surgery these days.’

‘Where are you based?’

‘Holby City. I’m clinical lead on the Acute Admissions Unit.’

‘Even more of a coincidence: I’ve been locuming at St. James’.’

‘Small world,’ Serena smiles. ‘This would be quite a move for you, then?’

‘Not really. Not compared to what I’m used to.’

‘Oh?’ Serena frowns.

‘I’m in the RAMC – _was_ in the RAMC,’ Bernie corrects herself, something Serena can’t name flitting across her face. ‘Until I was caught in an explosion.’

Serena’s saved from having to find an appropriate response to this – literal – bombshell by the arrival of her pappardelle and Bernie’s lasagna. She looks at Bernie as they both practically inhale their first few mouthfuls, now recognises her expression as guardedness.

‘Can’t have been an easy transition,’ she says cautiously. ‘The Army to St. James’.’

‘No,’ Bernie agrees with a tight little smile. ‘A general surgical ward with almost entirely electives is – well, it’s not quite what I’ve been used to.’

‘I think that’s probably putting it mildly,’ Serena interjects, pleased to draw another smile from her. ‘I take it the job here is a bit more up your street?’

‘Working on the MoD hospital unit,’ Bernie replies with a nod. ‘It’s not trauma, but at least I’ll be working with and treating people who understand military life. And I’ll get to help train new medics too.’

‘You must have a lot of valuable experience.’

Suddenly the floodgate opens. Serena finds herself forgetting about her pasta, long minutes passing between mouthfuls, as she listens to Bernie, watches her come to life as she talks about trauma surgery, about what she loves doing, her face glowing from more than just the candlelight.

_Her hair looks so soft,_ she thinks dreamily, then pulls herself up. _She could be just what I need,_ she thinks instead, pushing it to one side. _Surely even Connie Beauchamp couldn’t compete with a top trauma surgeon…_

‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a bit of consultancy work on the side?’

‘Doing what?’

So Serena tells Bernie how she’s been lobbying for better trauma facilities for AAU, how the ED have got wind of it and Connie has decided she wants them instead, how they’ve both got to put in a proposal. Tells her what she wants, how she knows it’s going to be a lot of work, going to require a complete overhaul of their current system and a lot of training for everyone on the ward – herself included – but that she thinks they’re the best place for a dedicated trauma unit, that she knows it will be worth all the extra work.

‘I think it sounds brilliant,’ Bernie says when she’s finished.

‘You– you do?’ Serena asks, suddenly desperate for her approval, fiddling with her pendant.

‘Absolutely. It’s something I’d love to be involved in.’

Serena can’t quite believe her luck. She listens as Bernie tells her about the lack of proper trauma facilities in Holby and the surrounding area, how she’s clashed with her colleagues at St. James’ over her approach to surgery – and if Serena thought she’d lit up before, now she’s like a Christmas tree.

‘I’d love to work on a unit like that,’ Bernie finishes wistfully.

‘What about the military unit?’ Serena asks.

Bernie sighs. ‘I don’t really want to move here,’ she confesses quietly. ‘I can’t keep working at St. James’, though.’

‘Don’t think you’ll adjust to electives?’

‘It’s not just that. My soon to be ex-husband works there too. Everyone knows me as his formerly absent wife, who had an affair with a woman.’ Her voice drops to almost a whisper, her eyes fixed on her empty plate.

‘Far from ideal, then,’ Serena says gently, reaching across the table to touch Bernie’s wrist.

Bernie looks at her, eyes wide with worry. ‘You don’t–’ she starts. ‘I mean, you–’

‘My husband was an inveterate cheat,’ Serena says flatly. ‘But that’s not the same as this. Far from it.’

They’re interrupted by the waiter, arriving to clear their plates and offer the dessert menu. Serena lets her fingers trail along the back of Bernie’s hand before she takes one from him, knows what she’s going to have already but looks anyway, stealing glances at Bernie over the top of the menu.

‘You’d really rather stay in Holby?’ she asks, once they’ve given their order.

Bernie shrugs. ‘I’d like to get to know my children again. When they’re ready to talk to me, that is.’

‘Not taking the divorce well?’ Serena guesses.

‘You could say that,’ Bernie says, with a twist of her lips. ‘I was hardly mother of the year material before this.’

‘None of us are,’ Serena interjects. ‘I’m sure they’ll come around, given time. Although I can’t imagine you promptly upping sticks and moving here is exactly going to help matters.’

‘No,’ Bernie says glumly. ‘But I can’t take much longer at St. James’, Serena.’

‘Well I, uh, I can’t guarantee you a job, obviously. But I would very much appreciate your input on my proposal. And I hardly think Henrik and the Board can object to that proposal including funding for a trauma expert to join us.’

‘Oh Serena, no, I didn’t mean–’

‘I know,’ Serena says, holding up her hand to silence Bernie. ‘And _I_ don’t mean to force your hand. But I don’t want you to think decamping to Edinburgh is your only option.’

‘Ok,’ Bernie says, with a shy smile, dark eyes fixed on Serena’s above the flickering candle.

They linger over their coffee and desserts – tiramisu for Serena, apple pie for Bernie – return to talking about past surgeries and bickering over techniques, comparing their very different approaches.

_It could be like this every day,_ Serena thinks longingly. _I could have an equal, someone to spar with, to push me, to support me._

And then: _No. Don’t get attached. It might not happen, there are so many reasons it might not._

_Oh, but it could,_ her treacherous mind repeats, and Serena can’t help picturing Bernie in AAU scrubs, certain they’d suit her slender frame, sitting at the other desk in her office, bending over a patient in her ward, standing opposite her over an open body in theatre. Sitting next to her in Albie’s at the end of a long day.

_You’ve only just met the woman,_ she chides herself. _You might fight like tigers._

But somehow Serena doubts it, suspects that they’d argue, yes, because they’re clearly both passionate, but that they could build quite the professional partnership.

She twirls her spoon idly in her nearly empty bowl, gazes across the table at Bernie as she expounds upon the virtues of metal plates for fixing broken ribs, can’t help noticing the fire in her eyes and the gold of her hair, the line of her neck and the elegance of her fingers as she gestures, almost throwing her fork over her shoulder.

_Professional,_ she reminds herself firmly as Bernie’s tongue darts out to catch a crumb of pastry, pushing the growing attraction into a corner of her mind and willing it to stay there.

‘My treat,’ Serena says when they’re eventually finished and Bernie is reaching for her wallet. ‘After all, I dragged you out into the cold again when you could have been snuggled up eating pizza in bed.’

‘No, let me,’ Bernie protests. ‘You didn’t have to offer to share your room. And that meal was far better than any takeaway could have been.’

Their eyes lock, and Serena can see that Bernie isn’t just going to back down. ‘I’ll arm wrestle you for it,’ she suggests.

‘You’re having a laugh.’

‘Come on,’ Serena insists, leaning forward and placing her elbow on the table.

‘Alright,’ Bernie relents. ‘It’s your funeral.’

‘Oh, big macho army medic, are we?’ Serena teases. ‘Well, we’ll see.’

Bernie slips her hand into Serena’s, and Serena takes a little longer than is strictly necessary getting a firm grasp, can already feel the strength in Bernie’s fingers where they wrap around hers. Strength, and steadiness, and no doubt dexterity, honed by years of surgery.

_What else those fingers could do._ The thought appears without warning from that dark corner where Serena tucked her attraction, takes her by surprise, makes her heart quiver and her stomach flutter. Bundling it away again is only made harder by the slide of Bernie’s skin against hers, by how much closer they are now, Bernie’s eyes dark and glittering in the candlelight.

‘Ready?’ Bernie asks.

‘Yep,’ Serena replies, forcing herself to focus.

‘Go.’

Bernie gets the better of her almost instantly, but Serena isn’t one to back down – especially not when this was her idea – and pushes back against her until she can feel the tide turning in her favour. She digs deep, draws on all her frustration with Ellie and the weather, until finally she pushes Bernie’s hand to the table and crows with victory.

‘Who’d’ve thought it?’ Bernie asks, slowly pulling her hand from Serena’s grasp and sitting back in her chair.

‘It’s not the dog in the fight, it’s the fight in the dog,’ Serena grins, reaching into her handbag for her purse and gesturing to the waiter, credit card in her fingers and the ghost of Bernie’s touch on her hand.

‘Shall we head back, then?’ Serena asks as they step back out into the cold, all wrapped up again.

‘I’d quite like a bit of a walk actually, if you don’t mind? Could do with stretching my legs out a bit – and walking some of that off.’

So instead of turning right towards the hotel, they turn left towards the city centre, walk past shop and restaurant windows decorated for Christmas. They’re just passing The Scotsman hotel, about to step onto North Bridge, when Serena suddenly feels her foot slip from under her on the compacted snow and ice. But even before the thought that she might be about to – rather embarrassingly – hit the pavement has fully arrived, a strong hand is steadying her.

‘Big macho army medic,’ Serena repeats, her heart pounding from more than just the shock of the slip.

‘I do have my moments,’ Bernie smiles, her gloved hand still on Serena’s arm.

Serena doesn’t realise how long they’ve been standing there, gazing at each other, until another pedestrian brushes past her.

‘Right,’ she says with a little cough, forcing herself to look away. ‘Shall we?’

‘Onward,’ Bernie agrees. But when she goes to remove her hand Serena covers it with her own, holding it firmly in the crook of her elbow.

They’re still arm in arm when Serena comes to a halt in the middle of North Bridge, draws Bernie to look across to the Christmas market set up in the gardens beyond the station, all twinkling lights, snatches of Christmas music swirling towards them on the breeze with the snow:

_“I’m gonna find that girl underneath the mistletoe, we’ll kiss by candlelight.”_

Serena glances at Bernie, her face in profile against the glittering backdrop and barely stops herself from leaning to press a kiss to her cheek. As Bernie starts to turn her head, as if she can feel Serena’s gaze, Serena quickly looks down at the parapet, sees that someone has drawn a heart in the snow and wonders if the universe is trying to tell her something.

*

The hotel room feels almost like a sauna when they arrive back, chilled and damp and windswept, cheeks and noses rosy. They shed scarves and coats and boots, and when Serena comes out of the bathroom, changed into pyjamas, she finds Bernie finishing stuffing their boots with newspaper, lining them up under the radiator.

‘Your turn,’ she says lightly, ignoring the little lurch of her heart at how right Bernie’s boots look beside hers, how nice it is to have someone take care of her, even in such a small way.

_Stupid woman,_ she scolds herself. _Must be the snow and the lights making you soppy._

She turns away, switches on the TV to find something to have on in the background, seeing as it’s still far too early for bed; reruns of Christmas cookery shows should do it, she decides. Nothing they need to pay attention to, nothing that matters if they get distracted talking of surgery and trauma plans. _If you get distracted by her hair, her hands, her lips._

Serena pulls back the covers on the double bed, props the pillows up against the headboard and settles into her side. When Bernie comes out of the bathroom and looks nervously around the room, she pats the duvet beside her.

‘We may as well be warm while we talk,’ she says with a smile.

And talk they do, while Delia cooks away. About the potential trauma unit – _their_ potential trauma unit – to start with, and on to sharing stories about patients and colleagues, and on to their children and Christmases past, sore as the subject is for them both.

Serena only realises how lost she’s been in the conversation, in listening to Bernie, in the welcome novelty of feeling that she’s truly being listened to in return, when she happens to glance up and sees that Delia’s homely kitchen counter and hob has given way to something professional, all bright shining metal surfaces and things sizzling on a flat top. And then Bernie yawns, and Serena looks away from the screen to the clock on the wall.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologises, aghast at how late it’s somehow got. ‘I’ve been blathering away and you’ve got to be up and at your best for your interview. You should have stopped me.’

‘I didn’t want to,’ Bernie says softly. ‘I can’t remember the last time I met someone I felt I could talk to properly.’

‘Me neither,’ Serena smiles, eyes lingering on Bernie’s until she yawns again, wide enough that her jaw cracks. ‘Right,’ she says, clearing her throat with a little cough. ‘Bathroom then bed. Hop to it, soldier.’

Bernie obeys. To the sound of the tap running, Serena peeks between the curtains to see that, yes, it’s still snowing. The chance of being stuck here for another day, however, doesn’t seem so bad now. In fact, she finds herself hoping for it, hoping for more time with Bernie.

They switch places, and Serena feels something odd pass through her chest at the sight of their toothbrushes in the same glass on the shelf under the mirror, their wash bags next to each other beside the sink.

_Foolish woman,_ she scolds herself again, gently touching the worn black leather of Bernie’s bag, the pretty floral fabric of her own.

She comes out of the bathroom to find Bernie pulling back the still pristine covers on the single bed, pulling a face when she feels how cold they are. When she slides back under the covers she just vacated, Serena feels that the sheets have already grown chilly, knows it’s going to be a cold night.

‘Come back over here?’ she says, voice barely rising in question.

Bernie hesitates, looking between the two beds.

‘We may as well make the most of sharing and actually stand a chance of keeping warm,’ Serena reasons. ‘No point both of us freezing if we don’t have to.’

Bernie opens her mouth, on the point of refusing. But suddenly the wind gusts and rattles the window, driving the snow against the glass so hard it sounds like hail.

‘Fair enough,’ she relents, crossing the room and sliding under the covers, lying beside Serena a little stiffly.

‘I won’t bite,’ Serena teases as she turns out the light and settles a little more comfortably. ‘Well, not unless you ask me to,’ she amends. That draws a little huff of amusement from Bernie, but Serena could swear it’s tempered by something else. _Wishful thinking,_ she decides.

She shifts a little, barely stops herself from jumping when her toes nudge against Bernie’s calf. Serena expects Bernie to move away but she doesn’t, she stays perfectly still. And then there’s a tiny sigh, and Serena senses the tense body beside her soften into the mattress.

‘Sleep well,’ she whispers into the darkness.

*

The middle of the night, and Serena wakes suddenly in the pitch black, momentarily disorientated. She was dreaming, can’t remember much but knows that she felt warm and happy and safe. Beside her, someone stirs.

_Bernie_ , Serena remembers. _Bernie was there._

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Serena reaches to gently touch Bernie’s shoulder where it peeks out from under the duvet, lets her hand linger until Bernie snuffles, breaking the silence and the spell.

The weather sounds to have calmed, nothing rattling the panes or driving against them. Serena slides out of bed carefully, mindful of Bernie still fast asleep, goes to the window and parts the curtains just far enough that she can see outside. It might be calmer now but it’s still snowing, countless fat flakes drifting down in silence. In the yellow-gold of the street lights they look like crisp autumn leaves, and Serena is almost mesmerised watching them, doesn’t hear the rustle of movement from across the room.

‘How’s it looking out there?’ Bernie asks, voice hoarse with sleep, from just behind her.

Serena jumps, head whipping around to look over her shoulder. ‘Could you wear louder shoes?’ she admonishes, heart racing.

Bernie holds up her hands in apology, looks out of the window and shivers; Serena can’t tell if it’s from the chill coming from the glass or just from seeing the snow. She shifts backwards, letting go of the curtains, feels the warmth emanating from Bernie’s body and realises how chilly the room has grown while they’ve been asleep. She shifts again, almost unconsciously seeking Bernie’s body heat, feels Bernie tense in surprise and then relax into her. After a moment, Bernie’s hands come to rest on her elbows and Serena feels goose pimples erupt under her touch. She shivers a little, and Bernie rubs her hands gently up and down her arms.

‘Come back to bed,’ Bernie says quietly, hands still moving.

‘Is that how you seduce all your women, Ms Wolfe?’ Serena teases.

‘As I recall, you were the one who invited me to share _your_ bed,’ Bernie points out.

‘So I was,’ Serena agrees. She leans into Bernie properly, revels in her warmth, in how right it feels to be practically in her arms, to feel Bernie’s breath whisper past her ear.

And then she lets Bernie lead her back to bed. They both slide under the covers, and this time Serena moves closer, close enough that her arm brushes Bernie’s.

‘I couldn’t talk you into snuggling, could I?’ she asks cautiously. ‘For warmth?’

‘Seeing as it’s you,’ Bernie grumbles, but Serena can hear that she’s smiling. ‘Come on,’ she coaxes, reaching out blindly until her hand lights cautiously on Serena’s hip, her fingers chilly through the fabric of Serena’s pyjamas.

Serena shifts again, closing the scant space between them, places her hand over Bernie’s, their fingers slotting neatly, just so. She hears Bernie sigh softly in the darkness, gently squeezes her fingers so their knuckles press together, with gentle pressure encourages her hand to curl around the jut of her hip. Warmth spreads through Serena’s body, spreading from beneath Bernie’s hand and reaching all the way to her heart. If Serena had allowed herself to think about this – about Bernie’s hand on her in bed – she’d have expected to feel the heat of desire. And while that’s certainly present, pooling in the pit of her stomach just inches from Bernie’s fingertips, the warmth she’s feeling is far more than just this.

_Comfort,_ Serena thinks as she drifts back to sleep, still clutching Bernie’s hand to her hip. _Security. Safety. Belonging._ Just like in her dream.

*

Bernie still hasn’t emerged downstairs by the time Serena has finished her breakfast and checked the weather forecast (more snow, and still more to come; gusting winds, too) – and likelihood of flights resuming (slim to none) – with Shelagh. So she takes another croissant from the basket on the dresser, pours a cup of coffee and adds the barest splash of milk, and takes both back up to the room.

‘I come bearing gifts,’ she announces as she opens the door. ‘I hope you like…’ She trails off, the words dying in her suddenly dry throat.

Because Bernie isn’t in a suit, like Serena would be if she was the one going for an interview. No, Bernie is in her uniform, khaki trousers and cherry jumper, a wide belt emphasising her narrow waist. Her hair is in a neat bun, not a single strand escaping, and Bernie is about to add her cap.

Serena sets down the plate and cup with trembling hands, bustles off to the other side of the room under the pretence of checking her emails on her phone, tries to get her racing heart under control. She’s never really had a thing for men in uniform, but this? She tries not to think about what Bernie’s dress uniform might look like, what colour it is, if it flatters her figure.

‘How do I look?’ Bernie asks.

Serena turns around, has managed to get enough of a hold of herself not to say the first thing that comes into her head. _(Delicious. Incredible. Like I want to kiss you.)_

‘I’d hire you in a flash,’ she says instead, adding a wink because Bernie looks nervous. ‘Go get ‘em, soldier.’

Bernie salutes, spine ramrod straight, and then smiles and softens a little. ‘Thanks for this,’ she says, ripping a piece off the croissant and popping it into her mouth.

‘Couldn’t very well let you go off on an empty stomach now, could I?’ Serena smiles. ‘Or without a good shot of caffeine.’

It’s an effort to tear her gaze from Bernie again, but it feels strange to just stand and watch her eat from across the room. So Serena busies herself with her phone again – she has no emails that won’t wait, doesn’t even open any of them but scrolls aimlessly up and down her inbox to make it look like she’s occupied, to give her eyes something to look at while she tries to calm her racing heart.

‘Right,’ Bernie says, draining the last of her coffee. ‘I’d better be off. I’ll see you later?’

‘Unless there’s a dramatic and unforeseen improvement in the weather,’ Serena says dryly. ‘I’m sure you’ll wow them, they’d be idiots not to hire you on the spot. But – well, on the off chance it doesn’t work out,’ she can’t help but add, ‘and you find yourself back in Holby…’

‘You’ll be my first port of call,’ Bernie promises, so sincerely that Serena believes her.

Their eyes lock across the room for the longest moment, and Serena’s almost certain Bernie’s about to say something else. But she doesn’t, just offers another little smile and leaves.

And Serena feels almost bereft as soon as the door closes behind her.

*

Minutes later, Serena is dashing down the stairs and towards the front door, the tails of her long cardigan flying behind her. She opens the door onto the street, barely noticing how cold it is, looks up and down the pavement almost frantically and spots Bernie almost at the nearest bus stop.

‘Bernie!’ she calls, running towards her, sliding a little in the slush.

Bernie turns, just in time to hold her up like she did the previous evening. She looks at Serena, a frown creasing her brow, opens her mouth to say something.

But before she can utter a word, Serena kisses her. And Bernie kisses her back.

‘Sorry,’ Serena murmurs when their lips part, though the smile spreading across her face contradicts her words.

‘Don’t be,’ Bernie smiles in return, fingers caressing Serena’s arm.

‘I don’t want you to take the job here,’ Serena blurts out, unable to keep it in any more than she could stop herself chasing after Bernie, any more than she could stop herself kissing her.

‘I don’t want to either,’ Bernie admits quietly. ‘Did you really mean it – about the trauma unit? About wanting me?’

‘I did,’ Serena confirms. ‘I think we’d work well together, and I can’t think of anyone better than a world-class trauma surgeon to help improve my ward and my hospital. That isn’t the only reason, though,’ she adds, her eyes flicking down to Bernie’s lips again. ‘I don’t want to lose whatever this might become, either. And if you think that would be a problem then I’ll step aside and support Connie’s proposal for the ED to get the unit. Lord knows I’ve made my opinion on workplace relationships clear on many an occasion.’

‘I wouldn’t – couldn’t – ask you to do that,’ Bernie says. ‘I know how much this unit means to you. And I’m sure we’re mature enough to be able to work together. Besides, from what you told me last night you wouldn’t exactly be my boss, would you? We’d be more like equals, surely – it would be _our_ unit, after all, wouldn’t it?’

Serena smiles at the thought of having an equal, at the thought that she’s willing – keen, even – to break the rule she’s had since the last time Edward tried to inveigle his way back into her life. And with a woman she’s only known for a matter of hours, at that. She opens her mouth to reply, but a bus whooshes past.

‘That’ll be mine,’ Bernie says regretfully. ‘It would be rude of me not to turn up, especially considering the journey I had to get here.’

Serena nods, doesn’t trust herself to speak.

‘You’ll still be here when I get back?’ Bernie asks.

Serena looks pointedly up at the almost while sky and the fresh flakes starting to dance as the wind picks up again.

‘Good,’ Bernie murmurs, brushing a quick kiss to her lips before letting her go and jogging to the bus.

Serena watches until it’s out of sight down the road, and only then realises how cold she is. Back inside, as she warms up she becomes less certain, more worried that Bernie is going to take the job. That Bernie isn’t going to come back, that she’s never going to see her again. After all, what was tour after tour with the Army if not running away from a life she chafed against, even if she didn’t realise it to start with?

_But she has to come back,_ Serena tells herself. _For her things, if nothing else._

_She doesn’t_ have _to,_ says another little voice, as her gaze lands on Bernie’s rucksack. _She didn’t exactly bring much with her, took everything important with her. Nothing left here is irreplaceable._

And then she thinks about the look in Bernie’s eyes, on her face. The way Bernie kissed her back. The way she checked Serena wasn’t going to leave before she returned.

The way Bernie kissed her.

Serena smiles and touches her lips. _Oh,_ the way Bernie kissed her.

*

Later, Serena tries to sit and read in the window seat. She forced herself to go out for a couple of hours earlier, wandered around the Christmas market again, bought another bag of butter cookies and a gingerbread latte with an extra shot and sat by the carousel, watched a young couple ride side by side on the glossy painted horses, their hands tightly clasped between them. For a moment she had imagined being in their place, her and Bernie hand in hand. Imagined Bernie’s hands on her waist helping her down when the carousel slowed to a stop. Bernie’s lips warm on hers in the chilly air. Bernie’s hand in the crook of her elbow, just like last night, as they walked through the rest of the market together. Imagines it there all the way back to the hotel, the trudge along the snowy pavement made bearable by it, though not as pleasant as it was with the real thing by her side.

Now, waiting for Bernie and failing to focus on her book, she’s regretting that extra shot, caffeine and sugar and nerves making her increasingly jittery, making her check the time every thirty seconds even though she has no idea when to expect Bernie back. Eventually she gives up and closes the book with a snap, pulls out her phone and decides she may as well phone Henrik to update him. But just as she’s about to tap the call button, she hears the creak of the stairs.

Serena abandons her phone on the cushion beside her, finds herself holding her breath, eyes fixed on the door.

A key is inserted into the lock and turned.

The door opens slowly, and Bernie steps into the room, eyes instantly seeking Serena’s.

‘So?’ Serena asks nervously.

Bernie closes the door behind her, sets down her satchel, takes off her coat and her cap. She casts her eyes to the tartan carpet and then looks at Serena from under her fringe, her sudden shyness at odds with her uniform.

‘They offered me the job,’ she replies quietly.

‘Congratulations,’ Serena makes herself say. ‘It did sound like a fantastic unit.’

‘I turned it down.’

‘What?’ Serena asks, certain she must have misheard, certain her brain must have twisted Bernie’s words into what she wants them to be.

‘I turned them down,’ Bernie repeats, her voice a little stronger now. ‘I’ve been cold since the moment I stepped off the train – I’ve got far too used to deserts. And being here is hardly going to help me get to know my kids again. And – well, and there’s you, Serena.’

‘Me?’ Serena asks, heart fluttering with hope.

‘You,’ Bernie confirms with a little smile. ‘The prospect of working with you, of building a trauma unit from scratch – it’s the most excited I’ve felt about civilian work since I was discharged. Far more excited than I felt looking around the hospital here today.’

‘Just– just working together?’ Serena asks, trying to keep disappointment from colouring her voice. _The kiss,_ she thinks desperately. _I was so sure she felt it too._

‘Not just that,’ Bernie confesses shyly, eyes flicking down to the carpet before meeting Serena’s again. ‘If– if you–’

Serena can’t stay still any longer. She gets up and crosses the room, stops a foot in front of Bernie. ‘I do,’ she smiles, reaching for Bernie’s cold hands. ‘I do.’

Bernie smiles, wide and beautiful, and there’s nothing Serena can do but kiss her, one hand sliding around her waist, following the line of her belt, the other tangling in her hair, holding her close.

‘You’re sure?’ Serena murmurs into the scant space between their lips.

‘I’m sure,’ Bernie replies, still smiling, and leans to kiss her again.


End file.
